Exotic Dancer

It began with a warm Saturday morning in June. I was at a loose end and was on the lounger in the garden reading community messages posted on a local website. It gave a link to another site listing items wanted and secondhand items for sale in the neighbourhood. I followed the link, scanning the lists for cheap garden furniture close enough to pick up. Then I saw this: "Looking for exotic dancer to liven up respectable country house party. Perform your act and have a good time. Call the number below after 6.00 p.m." The message was accompanied by a stylised line drawing of a woman with her leg raised in a high kick in the style of the Moulin Rouge and the decadent life.

That made me sit up. What could it mean by an exotic dancer? Had I discovered an advert for a stripper on our community website? Needless to say I'd never been to a strip show but I'd seen things in films and has a vision of a roomful of men eyeing a woman with long legs as she stalked along a raised stage and gyrated in lacy underwear. And what country house could it be? Of course I was curious and decided it must be the big house on the way out of town along the Bycall Road. I'd always wondered what went on there.

I moved on in search of furniture but couldn't forget the advert. What sort of woman was expected to respond? Someone working in adult entertainment? Well, there wasn't anything like that locally as far as I knew. An amateur dancer? More likely a bored housewife wanting to make some money. I'd had ballet lessons as a child and done a bit of modern dance as a young woman. I loved to dance. Did that make me a dancer? I laughed at the thought of passing myself off as an exotic dancer. My weight is a little more than I'd like but I'm reasonably fit and I can look good. Certainly Barnaby thinks so but then I guess my husband's biased. Well good luck, I thought. Whoever was advertising was going to be disappointed. They'd be lucky to find an exotic fruit let alone a dancer in this dull neighbourhood.

I didn't forget the ad and caught myself moving sinuously as I emptied the dishwasher. When Barnaby came in, I pushed the strap of my dress off my shoulder exposing my bra.

"What's that about?" he demanded as I wiggled my shoulders.

I laughed and lifted them hem of my dress to expose some leg before doing a high kick. I was still supple and was pleased with my effort.

"Just keeping fit. We're not in the grave yet."

"You're good," he replied solemnly. "Keep doing it."

Later in the evening I re-read the ad. Why hadn't the hopeful guy been clearer about what he wanted? If he was after a stripper, he should have said so. Well, it was obvious he didn't say that because the web editor would have objected and taken down his post. The ad itself was a tease, intended to grab the interest of people like me. A young woman would ring the number to find out what it was really about and then be talked into doing something she'd regret. Well, I wasn't naïve. It was after six and it was a simple matter to pick up the phone and call the number. I'd hear what he had to say and put down the phone. No one need know what I'd done.

I gave myself no time for second thoughts and dialled the number. It rang for some time before a man answered.

"Yes?"

"It's about the ad for a dancer."

"Oh yes. Are you a dancer?" He sounded as if I'd interrupted something more interesting.

"I'm a trained dancer."

"If you look the part you've got the gig. Send me your picture."

That was abrupt and hardly made anything clear. "Hang on. Tell me more. What are you're looking for? Where is it?"

He said where it was. It wasn't the house I had in mind but somewhere further away. "We have a barn with a stage and lights. It's a fun evening for my friends. You come along, do your act and that's it. I'm very generous. Two hundred pounds. Afterwards you can stay around and have a drink or leave. It's up to you. Do you have a set routine?"

"What are you looking for?"

"You're the expert. You know what we want."

"Yes but what style of dance?"

"Any kind of strip routine as long as you get your kit off. As raunchy as you can make it. Nobody will take offence. Let me know how long you need."

I was breathing hard when I put down the phone. How did I do that? I'd made no commitment but the man had taken me for a stripper. In front of me was a scribbled email address where I was to send my picture. Panic began to overcome shock and excitement. I rushed to find Barnaby.

"Barney, I've done something really stupid. I've just been offered £200 to do a striptease."

He laughed incredulously then saw that I was serious. I explained about the advert and we went to look at it.

"It looked so bogus and I was curious to find out more." I was breathless as I told him about the telephone conversation. "Would you believe it? He took me for a stripper."

"Why wouldn't he? You rang about a job as a stripper. And who says you're not a stripper? You can get your clothes off and you like being the centre of attention. You'd be good."

"Don't mock. I never meant to do anything. I just wanted to know what the ad was about. I'm not sexy like a stripper."

"You'd be the star. Why were you practising a sexy dance in the kitchen if you're not thinking of doing it?"

"No!"

"What did this guy sound like?"

"He was okay. Young and in control and super sexy. He can't wait to get hold of my picture and see how I look."

"There you are. Of course you want to do it."

"He'd be disappointed. No sequins or sexy underwear and a thirty-five-year-old frump."

"Send the picture."

"Be serious. You're my husband and are supposed to stop this sort of thing."

"I bet he likes you. And you wouldn't have called if you didn't want to do it."

"Can you hear what you're saying? If you're not careful I'll think you want me to parade naked in front of a roomful of men."

"Sounds pretty amazing."

"Bastard."

Barnaby was doing his best to tease me by pretending he wanted me to take the job. But I wasn't rising to his bait. We went into the kitchen and he opened a bottle of white wine.

"You shouldn't joke about it. I'm not sending him my picture. I don't have anything suitable."

"Come on Christabel. We both know that hidden inside your sexy body is a repressed slut. You can't talk to a man without flirting."

"That's objectionable. You're jealous because people like me."

"You'd love to strut the stage and have a roomful of men gawping at you."

"Not true. You're the one with the oversize ego, always trying to top someone's joke, never able to keep your mouth shut."

This was a source of contention between us. Barnaby was a musician, a trumpeter who played jazz, classical, folk -- anything where he could get paid and toot away in front of an appreciative audience. He's the boy always making the loudest noise. But it's true that I'd always envied his ability to perform and hold the attention of an audience.

"A striptease is crude and slutty."

He shrugged impatiently. "Only if you do it that way. It's like any dance -- self-expression through the body. And being sexy isn't crude. It's an art and you'd be good. You have a lovely figure and don't deny you're greedy for attention."

"I'm a good dancer."

"That too. You've convinced me. You'll be a hit. Which picture are you going to send?"

"Hold on Barney. We shouldn't be discussing this. I was curious, nothing more. If I didn't know you're joking, I'd be very put out by your eagerness to have me strip for a wage."

"I don't joke about important things. Which picture will you send? It has to be sexy."

I was lost for words. Why did Barnaby keep on about it? "In any case, what do you know about striptease? Have you ever seen one?"

"Not a live one. I played backing for a burlesque show once. That was fun. They can be very sexy but there wasn't much flesh on show."

"And you really think you're happy with your wife showing off her body to a room full of strangers?"

He paused and sipped his wine. "It'd be quite an experience. Of course, you need a sexy act and a good costume. As you say, you're a good dancer -- and they'd love your tits. No question. I'd love to see it."

"Are you serious?"

"The question is whether you're serious. Admit that you want to do it. You want to be on stage with everyone's eyes fixed on your tits."

"Not when you put it that way. Maybe this guy wouldn't want me after all."

"Only one way to find out. Send him your picture."

"I don't have anything suitable."

"Put on your fanciest knickers and we'll take some snaps."

"Is that what he wants?"

"It's a sales pitch. You put on display what you have to offer."

"I don't have any fancy knickers -- as you put it."

"Then get some."

"Really Barney, you're making this into a joke at my expense."

He shrugged and the conversation ended. We went to bed and made love. I wished I'd not seen the ad and was determined to forget it.

The next morning I woke from an absorbing dream. In the scrap I remembered, I was stalking across a stage in the glare of a spotlight. Still half-asleep, the dream started to clarify. I was naked. There were rows of people watching. I wore a massive feather head dress. I was kicking my heels high and moving my hips. I must have dreamily attempted an actual kick because I woke up Barnaby.

We ate breakfast without mentioning the ad. Barney gave me a few curious glances and I wanted to ask him what he was thinking. But I was determined to be in control of myself and stayed silent.

I went upstairs and was getting ready for my shower when he walked into the bedroom. Suddenly inspired by my dream, I couldn't stop myself and eased my pyjama trousers over my gyrating hips and kicking them away with a flourish. I was amused to see Barnaby watching as if frozen. Pleased with myself, my panties followed the trousers and I sauntered across the room naked from the waist down before bending in front of Barney to touch my toes and wiggle my hips.

"See. All you need is an audience and you forget common decency." Suddenly he grabbed me and held me tight. "No man could resist you doing that."

"Don't mess me about. I have to go out."

"To buy sexy underwear? You want me to help you choose?"

"Don't mock. I have to do the weekly food shop."

"You have to send that guy a photo. Let's get something to make you look good."

"In your dreams."

But when I was ready, I challenged him. "You want to come then? I might change my mind."

Barnaby was surprised. "If I come, I'll make you buy something."

"Maybe I'll call your bluff. Serve you right. You'll be jealous if I do send a sexy picture."

"I'd think it was really hot."

"You'd never let me forget it."

I wasn't sending a photo but I'd more or less talked myself into buying underwear and wanted to see what was sold as erotic lingerie. It would remind me of my sexy dream and make me feel good.

By the end of the morning, we'd bought a ridiculous lingerie set in red and white lace and a pair of shiny red heels. I said I didn't need the stilettos but we both liked them and Barney paid. Each purchase weakened my objection to taking a photo. Email it to a stranger? I was still sure I'd never go that far.

Barnaby said he'd take my picture. I changed into my new gear while he set up his tripod and camera with the portrait lens. It was fun and we spent an hour with me posing in my underwear.

We examined the results on the big screen on Barnaby's PC. I decided I looked good and when we chose our favourites, Barney's were similar to mine. I stared from the screen, head back, chest out, looking haughty and dangerous. We agreed which was the best of these.

"You'd hate me if I sent that."

"I want you to send it. You know you look great."

"He probably won't like me. Not the type. But if he did, I could still back out. I'd have to because I'm not a stripper. I don't have an act."

"Of course he'll love it. I can help you with the act."

"Maybe I'll send this one. I'd look even better if I got my hair done."

I was still doubtful and Barnaby seemed to have second thoughts. He said, "Really you should send a topless one. It's for a job as a stripper not for the cover of Vogue."

He searched through the file of pictures and opened one taken while I was changing. It showed me turned away from the camera and looking back over my shoulder. My ass was naked and one breast was exposed under my raised arm. It was a striking picture and I knew I looked good.

I laughed incredulously. "I'm not sending that. Are you mad?"

Barnaby laughed. "I bet he likes it."

"Delete it. I'm sending this."

We looked at one another, shocked by what I'd said. He'd done it. Somehow my resistance was gone and I'd said I'd send a picture. Could Barnaby really be happy about me mailing suggestive pictures to another man? If anything, he seemed amused by the idea.

The longer I stared at the picture the more I was convinced I had to send it. If I didn't, I'd always wonder what would have happened. And I'd never look so good again. I waited until evening, giving Barnaby a chance to have second thoughts. He said nothing. Finally I could delay no longer. But when I came to attach the picture to the email, I surprise myself again. I guess I was bothered the guy wouldn't find me sexy. Instead of the picture with me looking haughty in my new underwear, I sent the picture with me naked and looking over my shoulder. I added a message. "Let me know if you approve, and where and when you want me to dance. Cash on arrival."

That last bit was bravado. It was amusing to pretend to myself that I was going through with this but I had no intention of dancing. It would be a thrill if he accepted me but that would be it.

The answer came in half an hour. "You look great! Can't wait." And he gave me his name -- Yardley -- the place and the time, nine p.m. on Wednesday evening -- three days away. Three days to choreograph an act.

I told Barnaby I'd passed the audition. He seemed pleased so I said at once I'd not be doing it. The idea was to ring the number and tell Yardley I had to pull out. It would be easy to think of an excuse. Barnaby just smiled. And I delayed. If I had to perform a striptease, what would my act be like? Following Barnaby's hint, I found some burlesque acts to watch online. They were dramatic and sexy but I guessed they were rather tame for what Yardley wanted. Barnaby agreed.

"You have to show your tits and ass or you'll be booed off."

That's why I wasn't doing it. It sounded crude and tasteless. I found a site with a video of what I took to be a wet tee shirt competition. Overweight girls swaggering across a stage were sprayed with water and whipped off their shirts to drunken applause. They loved showing off but where was the art, the titillation?

Then I found a clip from a film from the nineteen sixties. A haughty actress walked along a high catwalk, posed in the spotlight and shrugged off her long black gloves, flinging them into the audience. She turned quickly so that her skirt flared up revealing stockings and suspenders. It was like my dream and I watched it through to the end. The actress was good. I could see the point of her dance. It was artful and sexy and a real tease because I wanted to see what happened next.

That's what did it. I watched the clip again, trying to decide whether I could do it and what I could improve on. By the end of the day I had a complete performance in my head and went round the house practising the key moves. I didn't have the outfit -- it needed something theatrical and elegant. It was far too outrageous for me to perform but it was amusing to pretend.

Barnaby caught me at it. I was in the bedroom shrugging rhythmically to make my bra strap slip from my shoulder.

"It's going well. I'm looking forward to a dress rehearsal."

"You'll have a long wait. There'll be no performance."

"You've agreed to do it."

"I'll cancel. It was never really going to happen. I don't have an outfit."

"Show me a bit more of your routine."

I obliged, pleased to have a critical audience. I did the bit where I remove my stockings. I wasn't wearing any so I mimed, foot on a stool, head flung back, haughty expression, hands running down my legs, knee twisted to reveal my naked sex. Barnaby watched every move, mouth open.

"You know that's a knockout. Do that and the audience will go wild."

I smiled, pleased but uncertain what I was doing. Half an hour later, Barnaby demanded that I look at something on his PC. He'd found a site for a store specialising in parties, theatricals and magic. Most of what I needed came from clothes stores but they had headdresses and sequins and theatrical makeup.

"There's everything here that you need."

This time I didn't argue with Barnaby. I'm not saying I'd agreed to dance, but I was going to kit myself out like a dancer if only to satisfy myself. The shop was some distance but I went alone. Then I drove to a big department store where I bought a dress and more underwear including stockings and a suspender belt. All this was expensive which set me thinking about the two hundred pounds.

Back home I tried on my purchases and the moment I saw myself in the mirror I knew I would dance. The headdress was spectacular and made me feel ten feet tall. I showed Barnaby and he was impressed.

"So I'll do it."

For a moment he looked as though I'd shot him. With an effort he said, "That's great. I knew you would."

Nothing more was said but that night we made love again. Barnaby seemed fired up by the thought of my dance. Or maybe it was me.

I knew I looked good in my costume but my routine needed work. When I decide to do something, I focus on it completely and I spent the rest of the day practising. I'd worked out a story to explain my act which made the strip almost incidental to the dance. I was a society lady undressing for the night after a ball and dancing to relive the memory of the evening with her lover.

Barnaby wanted a dress rehearsal. I wasn't keen because I thought he might criticise.

"I don't want you making me self-conscious."

"But I don't even get to see the performance," he complained. "It's not much to ask."

I had to oblige him and let him see my final rehearsal before lunch on the day of the performance. It went smoothly until I noticed that he'd unfastened his trousers and was jerking himself off.

"Are you mad? What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

He looked sheepish. "Come off it Christabel. You're sexy. How do you expect the men in the audience to react?"

"I expect grown men to show some self-control," I replied savagely. "And if they can't be respectful, I'll walk off stage."

"You need to relax a little. It's a sex show. You should be aiming to get them excited and be pleased when you succeed."

It made me think about what I'd set out to do. It was a shock to admit it but there was some truth in what Barnaby said. And after a bit I began to giggle. After all I'm Barnaby's wife and he's seen me naked every day for years so it must have been the dance that got him excited. That was good to know.

By the evening, I was looking forward to my gig, eager to get it done and nervous with anticipation, my head full of dance moves. I was relieved to find that I no longer had any doubts that I was doing the right thing. I'd be strong and in charge of my audience. I'd be haughty and distant and show these boys what a fine woman looked like. No one would dare behave like Barney and take out his cock.

When I was dressed, I kept away from Barnaby, not wanting anything to break my concentration. I wrapped myself in a raincoat and slipped out without our usual goodbye.

I arrived at the address in plenty of time and waited down the road, returning to ring the doorbell at the exact minute. A large man a few years younger than me answered, about six foot three and broad shouldered. He inspected me with humorous blue eyes and I was suddenly anxious not to disappoint. My raincoat fell open.